


Eshes Chayil (Woman of Valor)

by Thesherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All ends well if I ever finish this fic, Bipolar Disorder, F/F, Joan is Jo in this fic, Judaism, Orthodox Jewish Community, Sherlock being a rebel, There's some religiously motivated homophobia, fem!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Thesherlockholmes
Summary: Sherlock is a Charedi Jew pushing the boundaries of her strict faith. Jo is a convert to Judaism absorbing everything she can. What happens when they become room mates and discover more than either of them bargained for?





	1. Chapter 1

There was a girl sitting on a stool in front of a microscope. She wore a blue ribbed sweater, pencil skirt, black tights, and most strikingly, a hefty pair of boots that must have been bought in town.

  
"Sherlock this is-"

  
The girl looked over at me with a piercing and disapproving gaze.

  
"A ger? No."

  
"You're twenty. You'll take what you can get."

  
"It's a housemate not a shidduch."

  
Malka gave her a stare and the girl grudgingly turned towards me.

  
"Well, coming from the world of wonders into this hell. Bad family situation? Looking for Hashem?" The girl sneered. "I can read everything from those tights of yours. Branch out a bit- be daring or this will never work."

  
"I wouldn't be too sure." Joetta said.

  
She smirked. "I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes don't speak for days on end, and occasionally disappear. Would that bother you?"

  
"Only if I can't come with you."

  
She hummed.

  
"Malka, how did you find the firecracker? Can I use your phone?"

  
"Sorry left it in my coat."

  
"Do you have one...erm,"

  
"Jo, and no."

  
She laughed mockingly at that, shaking her head. "My, oh, my."

  
"You don't have one either." Malka pointed out.

  
Sherlock settled at that and brushed her hair out of her face.

  
"Well I suppose we could check out the apartment."

  
"Couldn't hurt, but we don't know a thing about each other."

  
Another smirk and then she rose from the stool and strode over, suddenly we were face to face. "You just made Aliyah, converted only a few months ago after a surprisingly fast study period. Hoping to edge in anywhere that isn't where you came from. You abide strictly to Halacha taking on stringencies left and right. You're hoping for a shidduch but haven't really started looking. And that's a story in itself. I think that's enough to be going on with, don't you?"

  
She stepped back and turned toward the door, "Got to dash, I left my siddur in the mortuary."

  
Then she swung the door open only to pop her head back around the corner. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 613 Montague St. Afternoon."

  
I stared at the door, dumb struck.

  
"She's always like that."

* * *

  
Sherlock got off the bus as it rounded the corner to Montague St. and walked down to the apartment building. It was only a few moments before she saw Joetta rounding the corner behind her.

  
"Jo!"

  
"Ms. Holmes." She stuck her hand out to shake.

  
"Sherlock please."

  
"Sherlock, then."

  
"Well, um." Sherlock knocked on the door and was greeted by an elderly woman.

  
"Sherlock!"

  
"Mrs. Hudson." The embraced and Mrs. Hudson kissed her on the cheek.

  
"This is Jo. Jo, Mrs. Hudson."

  
"Hello, hello! Come in." And with that they were ushered into the hall, kissing the mezuzah as they stepped over the threshold.

  
Sherlock led the way up the stairs and opened the door to the apartment. Jo walked in followed by Mrs. Hudson.

  
"Obviously we can tidy it a bit and erm, add touches of..." Sherlock gathered a few papers into a semi stable pile on the desk. It appeared she had already moved her things in- the book shelves stuffed with sefers, juxtaposed with books on every manner of scientific thought.

  
"Yes very nice. Is that-" Jo stepped closer to the chest against the wall.

  
"A Torah? Yes, I got it from a synagogue that moved. It needed repair and they couldn't afford to repair it so I bought it. Always need one for Simchat Torah. Boring standing around watching all the fun."

  
"Now there's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs. Hudson chimed in.

  
"Of course we'll be needing two." Jo said slightly affronted. Sherlock had continued to tidy up the room by making new piles on every surface available, it wasn't really accomplishing anything.

  
"Sherlock, look at the mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson examined the kitchen that obviously needed to be organized and divided.

  
"Well, I'll be off then. Jo, make yourself at home. Mrs. Hudson give her something to eat- something cold will do."

  
"Disappearing already?" Jo asked.

  
"I'll be back in an hour. Well on second thought, don't wait up."

  
She twirled on the coat she had taken off, grabbed her purse and bounded down the stairs.

  
"I'll get you a cup of tea, Jo."

  
"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson."

  
Jo looked around the room from the chair she had sat in and wondered what she had gotten herself into. Sherlock was perhaps the strangest girl she'd ever met. She seemed to be one big paradox- traditional one moment and progressive the next. As if reading her mind the girl reappeared in the door way, dragging Jo from her thoughts.

  
"You're a convert. You've been in shul for a year. What was it? Modern Orthodox?"

  
"Yes."

  
"Want to see the Haredi pray?"

  
"Oh yes."

  
"Come then, you can use my siddur."

  
And then they were bounding down the stairs, Sherlock alight in a way Jo had never seen.

  
"Mrs. Hudson forget the tea, we're off to Mincha!"

  
"Do reign it in Sherlock, it isn't decent."

  
"Who cares about decent? Come along Jo!"

  
If Jo thought they were going to an ordinary shul, she couldn't have been more wrong. Sherlock pulled her into a bus and the made their way through the streets to the most run down part of the community. They entered a dilapidated shul and walked up to the balcony. The space was empty and silent. Sherlock put a finger to her lips and leaned towards Jo's ear. "A few men will arrive to pray in a minute. They don't know we're here nor will they. I predict that one of the men will die either during or after praying on his way home. It's been happening with a strange regularity and I'm trying to figure out what's going on."

  
"And I thought we were just coming to pray."

  
Sherlock put a finger to her lips again and pulled her siddur from her purse.

  
"You're actually going to pray while a man is about to die?"

  
"Must you talk so much?"

  
Sherlock began whispering the words and shuckling ever so slightly side to side. She moved lightingly fast through the prayers- faster than anyone else Jo had seen in the past year.

  
"Amen."

  
"You did that in-"

  
"Three minutes."

  
"Why?"

  
"Time is of the essence. Now quiet down, they're here."

Sherlock pointed to the floor below just as the men started to enter. There were ten in the end. Just enough. They assembled and began to pray, a melodious hum rising up to the balcony.

  
"What Jew ends a minyan?" Jo whispered.

  
"They don't. There's always a new guy coming in after one dies. I've been investigating for ten months and they've always had ten."

  
"Investigating? What are you, a detective?"

  
"Consulting detective."

  
"Consulting detective? What is that?"  
"Well, I help the police. When they're out of their depths, which is always, they consult me. I also solve cases on the side. This is an anomaly I stumbled upon myself."

  
"The police don't consult amateurs."

  
"I told you about your conversion when I met you. I could have told you more, in fact, such as your relationship with your brother, Harry is it? And his wife he just divorced. But I didn't think that was the best thing to just blurt out. Not very modest."

  
"How?"

  
"I saw your siddur in your purse. Wasn't scuffed up. Really good condition in fact. So it hadn't been used very much. There were also pages dog-eared. Who does that except someone who needs places marked? Oh and you've written notes in it. Hadn't actually seen that often, but I guess you're eager. So you're eager and you're wearing tights when you've been going to a Modern Orthodox shul. Why do that unless you're not really modern? And the fact that you asked Malka for a Haredi housemate. That would be me, hello. Now, your brother. The ring you're wearing is an engagement ring. But you're not wearing it on the right finger and you're looking for a housemate so you're not engaged. There's a tiny engraving on the back of it- Harry, three x's. So romantic relationship if that wasn't obvious from the ring itself. It's not worn, quite shiny actually, so it wasn't worn long. The engagement was broken off. And he disapproves of your conversion and cut off all contact from you. What other reason would there be for you not having a phone? You can't afford one and anyone who knew you would likely either help you get one or give one to you, but no. So, there."

  
"That... was amazing."

  
"Really? That's not what people normally say."

  
"What do people normally say?"

  
"Piss off."

  
There was movement below them and the men left- all but one. He moved towards the ark and opened it.

  
"Come on." Sherlock turned from the balcony and ran down the stairs. As they arrived in the room below, the man stumbled back and collapsed on the ground. Sherlock ran over to him. The man was muttering something that soon ended, giving away to only silence in the room.

  
"He knew he was dying." Sherlock held a hand in front of his nose before checking his pulse. "Dead."

  
Jo crouched down and opened his eyes. The pupils were dilated.

  
"Any ideas?"

  
"No."

  
"Hmm." Sherlock's eyes flicked over and over the man, an expression of fascination plain on her face.

  
"Jo, look, the tallis is invalid. Someone removed one of the fringes. No one would ever let that happen, they would notice. Whoever killed him is trying to discredit him." She pondered him a moment, "Who is this man?" She muttered under her breath, "Who are you?"

  
She stood up then, exhaling longly.

  
"Well, if you can't figure anything out and I can't find anything else of value we should inform the police." said Jo.

  
"Wait, haven't searched the body yet."

  
"Is that-" Jo tries to interject, but Sherlock has already begun searching his pockets. She finds a bill fold, a few scraps of paper, lose coins and a few bank notes which she pockets.

  
"You just stole."

  
"Not doing any use for him- us on the other hand. Call it charity."

  
There is nothing of use in the bill fold and there rest of his pockets are empty, so Sherlock replaces it in his pockets before standing again.

  
"Alright, let's go. Call the police on an anonymous tip when we're sufficiently far away."

  
With that, they leave the man lying before the ark becoming increasingly stiff. Sherlock breaks into a run and leads John through back alleys and through nearly invisible passages, which end up winding them to a restaurant only a few blocks away from the flat.

  
"Hungry?" asked Sherlock.

  
"Starving."

  
They enter the quaint Italian bistro where John makes the call to the police before turning her attention to Sherlock.

  
"So..." Jo begins, but finds no words to actually pose a question and settles on looking at Sherlock across the table. She's staring out the window, fingers fiddling together, obviously turning over the case in her mind.

  
The waiter comes then, offering them menus and water glasses.

  
"Order what you like. I recommend the fettuccine." says Sherlock as the waiter walks away.

  
"I'm just going to wash-"

  
"Go, I'm not eating."

  
"Yes you are, come on."

  
And so Sherlock surprisingly finds herself following Jo to wash negel vasser and sharing a piece of bread. They return to the table to find the candle removed and a plate of garlic bread in its place.

  
"Less romantic." Sherlock comments rolling her eyes. Jo takes a stab although she figures she nows the answer.

  
"So you don't have a shidduch?"

  
"Oh just say boyfriend- so much easier. And no, not really my area."

  
"Ah, no boyfriend... that's fine. It's all, um, fine."

  
"I know it's fine." Sherlock shoots at her suddenly, sharply.

  
"Alright, alright. Just saying."

  
"Jo, I'm not what you think. You'll find that out quite rapidly I think."

  
Before she can reply, someone has come over to the table.

  
"Sherlock!"

  
"Angelo."

  
"Jo, this is Angelo the owner of this establishment."

  
"No date yet, hm Sherlock? Well, this woman here got me off a murder charge."

  
"And for a charge of house breaking." amends Sherlock.

  
"Well, this is on the house for both of you- and it shall be on your engagement night, soon it shall come." With that the man leaves, leaving Sherlock seeming very annoyed.

  
"Every single time." mutters Sherlock. The food arrives at the table then and Jo asks for it to be bagged up, something has come up, she says. The waiter returns with a box a few minutes later and Jo gets up.

  
"Let's go Sherlock."

  
Apparently not noticing anything that has just happened, Jo startles Sherlock out of her thoughts. She rises from her chair numbly and follows after Jo as she leaves the restaurant. They walk home in silence. Jo seems to be on the edge of an outburst of rage as she bounces on the balls of her feet and walks far too quickly along the way. When they arrive home and have discarded their coats, Jo finally snaps.

  
"I can't believe that. As if everything you do is irrelevant as long as you aren't married! You got him off a murder charge and he's just waiting to cater the wedding party."

  
"Jo calm down. You know that's what it's like here." Sherlock is holding her by the shoulders now because Jo has started to pace.

  
"Right, yes, of course, I know. But, you're so brilliant. You have the right to do something with that while you can."

  
"Which, Jo, is why I do exactly that." This seems to have effectively ended the conversation with Sherlock disappearing into her bed room. Jo decides to eat the food she'd brought from the restaurant and realises that she should get the kitchen basically organised. Sherlock doesn't emerge from her room for the rest of the night and John has fully organised the kitchen with the except of some science equipment that she wasn't sure what Sherlock wanted to do with it. She gives up waiting for Sherlock and goes to bed herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jewish vocabulary isn't really all this important here, it's just to add a bit of authenticity. Here's some translations:
> 
> Shidduch- dating match  
> Hashem- G-d  
> Negel Vasser- ritual hand washing before eating bread and upon waking  
> Daven- pray  
> Siddur- prayer book  
> Tallit- prayer fringes work under clothes by Orthodox Jews
> 
> Let's assume that Angelo's is somehow kosher certified and that Montague St. is somehow within an Orthodox community, just use your imagination. And originally, yes, it was Baker St, but I've since changed that for eventual plot reasons. Mrs. Hudson apparently has two properties in Central London. Just... artistic license because this story couldn't really get any more AU.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the week passes uneventfully, Jo attends her college classes Sherlock does whatever it is she does during the day. Honestly, Jo hasn't been able to parce that nor has she really tried. Not yet, anyway.

  
Any assumptions Jo may have made or conclusion that she drew seemed during the intervening days were destroyed when she walked into the apartment at 1:00 on Friday afternoon. Chasidic music is playing from a radio that Sherlock has placed on the kitchen table, which is now covered in a white table cloth and set with a set of candle sticks, the kiddish cup, and challah board. Sherlock, herself, is facing the stove obviously engrossed in tending to whatever she's making. The smell of bread is in the air and Jo feels herself already settling into the feeling of Shabbos.

  
"Hello Jo. Mind helping me out here?"

  
Jo sets down her bags on the kitchen floor and comes over to Sherlock. The stove has four things cooking- soup, vegetables, shakshuka, and some fillet of fish.

  
"Crack the eggs in the tomato in three minutes exactly. Then check the challah. The vegetables will be done in ten minutes. Transfer them to a bowl and put them into the fridge."

  
"It's only one o'clock. Do you always have everything done this early?"

  
"No, today was just empty, no cases, so I just started cooking everything. Maybe G-d will reward me with something interesting to think about over Shabbos."

  
Jo hums and cracks the eggs into the tomato sauce, checks the challah- there is way too much for only the two of them, and spies a kugel in the back of the oven as well.

  
"What are we going to do with all this food?"

  
"Oh I deliver some to Mrs. Hudson and a few elderly in the apartments across the street."

  
"Really?" asked Jo in surprise.

  
"Must that be such a surprise?"

  
"No I just-" Jo is cut off my the sound of the door slamming shut.

* * *

  
The day wasn't going well. She hadn't been able to sleep and had spent the entire night pacing her room, plucking her violin atonally- quietly lest she wake Jo. No experiment held her attention and no case was deemed even slightly intriguing. From dawn until noon she walked around the city at a frantic pace, passing Jo's college at least three different times. Her fingers wouldn't settled and she spent most of the day scratching her thumb with her forefinger causing a small cut to form. She'd returned home and got started cook only half an hour before Jo arrived. She couldn't concentrate and handed the job off to Jo. Her surprise at Sherlock having some sort of kindness set her off into a spiral and Sherlock just had to get out. She spent two hours in the park sitting on a bench bouncing her leg trying to get out all the energy she felt in her limbs, in her brain, in her blood. She bought two espressos which may have caused her hands to shake and didn't really help the situation but they tasted delicious. Finally she gathered the energy, despite the excess she felt she had none, and made her way home only moments before Jo began lighting the candles. Sherlock smiled softly when Jo covered her eyes with her hands taking the chance to admire the meal she had laid out. Jo must have cleaned as well and something, Sherlock couldn't put her finger on, had made everything seem every so slightly more cozy and warm. Sherlock said kiddush and the blessing over the bread, unintentionally rushing through the prayers- her brain was going to fast, every thought stumbling over and running into another in her mind.

  
"Sherlock?"

  
"Sherlock? You okay?"

  
Sherlock realised she hadn't put down the kiddush cup yet and had been staring at the wall for an indeterminable amount of time.

  
"Sorry, yes, yes. Let's eat." She exhaled, she had to keep herself in check. Hide it.

* * *

  
Jo finished putting the dishes in the sink to be washed and went into the living room. Sherlock was thumbing through a magazine on the couch, her toes curling and uncurling in the leather couch.

  
"That was... good." Jo said awkwardly, going over to the bookshelf- not really looking at the spines of the books, "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. It's not that I think you're not capable of-"

  
"Jo spare me. It's forgotten."

Sherlock doesn't look up from the magazine.

  
"Okay, alright." No point continuing if Sherlock wasn't going to listen.

  
"Alright."

  
Neither says another word the entire night.

* * *

  
Sherlock sweeps out of the house before Jo gets up. She had figured Jo as one to sleep in Saturday morning. Sherlock on the other hand makes it to the early Shabbat service, makes small talk with her sisters and avoids her mothers scowling looks, nevermind her father, and returns home to find Jo drinking a cup of tea.

  
"Why do you have three urns?" asked Jo as Sherlock hung up her coat.

  
"I usually drink an unfathomable amount of coffee or tea on my own and you drink tea like there's going to be none tomorrow. It seemed the best to set up three, just to be on the safe side." Jo chuckles and hands Sherlock a cup of tea she's just made for her.

  
"Why didn't you wake me? Would like to have gone. Any more deaths?"

  
"Didn't go to that shul." Sherlock provides no further information before disappearing into her room. Obviously, thought Jo, she didn't want to talk about it. Slightly bothered, Jo makes another cup of tea and spends the rest of the day alone- Sherlock once again hid away in her room, at least she wouldn't see Jo darting glances towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time. Quite liking writing this, even if it's quite an odd premise.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock emerges three hours after sunset, puts on a kettle, and goes about making tea as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just disappeared for practically the entire day. As if Jo hadn't just spent Shabbos alone, when she had a flatmate. No, Jo wasn't having that.

  
Jo leaned against the door jam between the living room and the kitchen.

  
"So are you going to tell me what's up?"

  
Sherlock spooned far too much sugar into a mug. Tore into a package of tea, put a bag in the mug. Ignored Jo.

  
"Sherlock, I realise I've only known you for a week. And also that you've warned me of all that you've done-whatever that is. I'm not going, so you can stop."

  
Sherlock spins around at that, a harsh scoff coming from her.

  
"If I could stop, I would." She turns back towards the kettle, away from Jo.

  
"Stop what?"

  
The kettle whistles. Sherlock pours the water into the mug. She stops suddenly and finding a mug, makes a second mug of tea for Jo. She thrusts it across the counter towards her, then turns her back. Takes a sip. Scalding hot it burns her throat- that feels good. A sigh and then she whips back around, draws herself up to her highest height, glaring as menacingly as possible at Jo, begins to speak almost too fast to comprehend.

  
"I'm not- I don't. Ugh, why must you be _so._ No, Jo you do not know me. You can't ask questions, you have no right. Come in here and judge and hate and think less of me. You can think you're better than me. I don't care. Just don't pretend- it's sickening. Don't pretend that I'm acceptable. Because I have it on _very_ good record that I am not. So leave. Get out. Because I will drag you down either by presence or association. I don't want that. You've worked hard. You're dedicated. Everyone will cut you out as they have me. So get out. Leave." Sherlock is breathing hard, one hand gripping the counter, knuckles white, her other hand is shaking at her side.  
Jo realizes she's holding her breath and makes herself exhale, then inhale. _Right._

  
"Sherlock, I told you the first night, it's all fine. You don't happen to know everything about me either. Look, I'm not good at-"

Jo shakes her head at the ground before looking back up, "I'm not going to leave. Because I find you genuinely interesting. And also because I have a feeling you'd get yourself killed doing these cases of yours if someone isn't around to watch you." Jo smiles just a bit at the joke, "As for the community, I'm here because the college is nearby, not because I was particularly set on this life. You're the genius- I would have imagined my going to college would have been a rather glaringly obvious clue of my intentions on its own. Now, if you're sufficiently calmed down, I'm rather interested by this case- was thinking about it the whole Shabbos. So why not fill me in?"

  
For a moment, Sherlock simply stares, not entirely comprehending how this woman has not gathered her bags and left the flat after what she had laid out about the inevitabilities of association with her. Then she registers Jo's question and comes back to the current world.

  
"Ah yes! Well, I have a number of newspaper clippings about the case," Sherlock is sweeping into the living room, her blue dressing gown billowing behind her and has begun shuffling through the piles of papers on her desk, "and some police reports on it,"

  
"Sorry, how did you get police reports?"

  
"-and a few photos I've taken of the scenes, and a number of my own notes on the deaths." At this point Sherlock has dropped a pile of papers on the living room table and is going through the desk drawers now. Jo sits down on the couch and picks up the top paper, which appears to be a clipping reporting what she assumes to be the first death.

  
"So far there have been three deaths," Sherlock is explaining picking her way through the pile of papers and pointing out the relevant information in them, "It seems that there's a pattern of discrediting each of the victims. The first didn't have a kippah, the second was wearing shatnetz, and the third, as you saw, had an invalid Tallis. I've gathered that the first two men each has something tumultuous going on in their lives at the time of the death. The first was going bankrupt and couldn't afford to send his son to a yeshivah. The second was having an affair. Haven't figured out anything about the third man yet, but doubtless there's something troubling there too."

  
"And the cause of death? Suicide seems likely given the circumstances."

  
"Yes, it would except that people who commit suicide rarely collapse without reason. Suicide is planned. It's not someone keeling over on their way home from shul. It's a gun to the head, a jump off a building."

  
Jo nods, continuing to read the papers.

  
"Here's the pictures, they don't really help. There's no clues to the cause of death at the scenes."

  
"You took these? With what?"

  
"Camera phone." Sherlock pulls a phone from the pocket of her dressing gown and flips it into the air, smirking.

  
"Thought you didn't have a phone."

  
"Appearances Jo. You may not plan on being in this community, but I grew up here. I don't intend on being completely shunned." _Just yet,_ she doesn't add.

  
Jo looks down again to hide her expression, the sadness that crept over her face at that. Hiding something so small, so innocent. Pressing the feeling down, she reaches for the photographs and examines them. Sherlock seems to be correct, she can't glean anything from the photographs except that the men all appear to be Orthodox. One is lying in a dark alley. The other is on a wooden floor that Sherlock informs her is the same synagogue the third man died in, who she doesn't have photographs of.

  
"No fingerprints? Nothing?" asks Jo.

  
"Police reports say everything is clean. No fingerprints, no evidence, nothing. They've classified them as suicides."

  
Jo hums and leans back on the sofa. "What's the time span on this?"

  
"Been investigating ten months. They've been spread out. But these are only the ones I've identified first hand. I reckon there are far more I don't know about."

  
"Any way to get more information?"

  
Sherlock shakes her head, "Police records are hard enough to hack to find what I'm already looking for. Haven't been able to get information I don't already know something about."

  
"Why not just go to the police? It's unlikely they know about the discrediting."

  
"I tried. Brushed me off."

  
"Ah," Jo rubs the back of her neck, "Well, that was when you were alone. What if there was someone else to back up your ideas? Do you think a credible medical student would be a strong enough ally?"

  
Sherlock looked over at Jo and grinned the largest, verging on maniacal, smile she has ever seen. "That might just be exactly what is needed."

* * *

  
Jo researches possible causes of death for the next five hours. Poison turns out to be the most likely, which seems obvious Sherlock says in a drawl when Jo presents the conclusion. They need more. They need specifics, apparently. They need another death. And Jo never thought she'd ever have that thought. Upon having it she shuts her laptop with a snap and stands with a great exhale.

  
"Need some air. I'm going for a walk."

  
"Jo, stay. Talk." Sherlock says, seeming to read her mind. "I know it must be disconcerting, but to save more lives-"

  
"Sherlock, just, stop talking for a minute." Jo massages her temples, trying to ward off the headache she feels coming on. Sherlock has dutifully quieted and Jo knows she is now looking at her trying to calm down. When she has, she looks up and finds Sherlock's eyes which are surprisingly alight.

  
"What?" Jo says suddenly, realizing Sherlock must have found something.

  
"There's another one. This one left a note." And then, there's that grin again, but Jo barely can see it fully because then Sherlock has jumped up and seems to be barely containing her excitement as she twirls gracefully around John towards the door.

  
"Brilliant! Come Jo, we have another scene to see!" And then her dressing gown is thrown off and the coat put on with a flourish and scarf in hand, she clambers down the stairs, Jo tugging her coat on as she follows closely behind.

* * *

  
They've taken a cab which gets them to the crime scene in a record time of seven minutes. Then Sherlock is jumping out of the cab, throwing a few bills at the cabbie and is determinedly heading towards the taped off crime scene. Jo briefly wonders how they are ever going to get access to see the scene, before realizing that Sherlock probably hasn't thought it was a problem. For her the question probably doesn't exist. The police need her and she'll prove it. Jo is proved correct as she catches up to Sherlock who is speaking with someone over the tape.

  
"I've seen three previous dead in a similar manner. I believe that my first hand observation of previous instances will greatly aid in solving this death-"

  
"Miss, I really don't think they're connected. Leave crime solving to the police, yeah?"

  
"Yes, but you've all missed one vitality important part of the deaths that proves they are connected."

  
The man looks briefly intrigued but soon has rolled his eyes, "I'm not allowing some enthusiast to mess up my crime scene."

  
And then, Jo witnesses what she will only later be able to describe as amazing brilliant genius.

  
Sherlock inhales and then, in that lighting fast way of hers, begins to speak.

  
"You just got promoted to DI, probably within the last month. You thought the promotion would help your marriage, more money equals more security equals marital happiness. But no. Your wife is still cheating on you, most likely with your child's teacher, and you've been kipping on a friends couch for the last week. She'll file for divorce in the next two months, never fear, and then back out. Oh, she's done that before? Interesting. And you take your coffee black and had a cheese and tomato sandwich for lunch. Am I wrong?"

  
The man holds out a hand, "DI Lestrade."

  
Sherlock ignores the hand and says, "Sherlock Holmes. Work on your observation skills, I'm Haredi. No handshakes."

  
"Ah right, so how did you... know all that?"

  
"You're acting in control and superior- overly so. Uncomfortable in a new position or did it just go to your head? Heavier workload has led to less sleep and a full schedule. I suggest getting a haircut sometime soon- it's really getting a bit out of control. You're old enough to have children and by the way you were speaking to me it's rather obvious that you have both older and younger children. Marital status indicated by your ring- you keep fidgeting with it, looking slightly worried when you do. Subconscious and very telling. You're most likely upstanding and really don't seem the type to cause marital trouble and you're worried, so it was her. Most likely cheating- that's simply statistics. And who is more convenient than a teacher? Especially with you being away so much lately. The fact that you're kipping on a sofa in obvious from that suit, you really should get that pressed or at least ask to hang it up. Coffee and lunch is evident from the stain on your cuff and the bread and cheese crumbs on your lapel. Now, may I see the crime scene?"

  
Lestrade looks amazed again before replying, "This way. No contaminating the scene. Put on these scrubs and the gloves. Don't move a thing in the scene."

  
Sherlock and Jo proceed to do as they're told, momentarily interrupted as Lestrade questions Jo.

  
"And you are?" He asks as she slips on a pair of gloves.

  
"Jo Watson. A colleague of sorts. Currently studying medicine at St. Bart's." That seems to satisfy the DI and then they are led to the crime scene.

  
Upon arriving, Sherlock stops short in the doorway, letting out a tiny gasp. Jo crowds behind her and peeks over he shoulder. And it's immediately obvious what has surprised Sherlock- why this one is different. This time the victim is a woman.

  
Sherlock proceeds into the room quickly, in retrospect the pause being only the blink of an eye, and strides to the body. She bends over in examination, sweeping over the body.

  
"Can I take off the wig?" asks Sherlock, looking up to Lestrade.  
He shrugs, "I suppose. Go ahead."

  
When Sherlock does, she reveals a completely shaved head, and quirks her lip in a smirk. She replaces the wig, almost reverently, before stepping back down to her legs. She reaches out, pinches the stockings and pulls, leaning in close in examination. After a few seconds of examination she moves on, and stares at the woman's face. Then she rises.

  
"Find anything Jo?" Sherlock asks, gesturing towards the body.  
She bends down and examines a few key points on the body, but comes up with no worthwhile information. "Nothing."

  
"Alright. Lestrade, _this_ is why you need me. The woman is Satmar. The shaved head and very particular stockings make it clear as day. However, she's wearing makeup."

  
Lestrade looks infinitely confused, "So? What woman doesn't wear makeup?"

  
"The pious, the very pious. There's not a single hair on her head. That means shaving at least every two days- unnecessarily stringent. You'd shave it like that before going to mikvah, keeping it very closely trimmed the rest of the time. And those stockings were made by the Rebbe himself. Ever heard about that Jo?"

Sherlock looks over at her briefly with a quirked eyebrow before turning back to Lestrade, "Makeup is forbidden. Especially that amount of makeup. Eyeshadow, eyeliner, _and_ blush? Over the top. The woman wouldn't do this. Point is, is that at every crime scene there has been something to discredit the victim. The first was missing a kippah, the second was wearing shatnetz- combined wool and linen, the third had an invalid tallis, and the fourth is wearing makeup. Now, the note: Rache. Revenge in German. Could be antisemitic crime, but who goes through this amount of trouble for that?" Sherlock stops then and looks down, examining the body again. Tilts her head.

"Something's off, something's... missing. Do you know who she is, where she's from? Stamford Hill?"

  
"We don't have any information yet, still working on that."

  
"Why is she twenty minutes away? She doesn't drive, so took the tube or a taxi. But why?" Sherlock's eyes widen and she glances back down and then back up, "Pram!"

  
"Sorry, what?" Lestrade asks.

  
"She was wheeling a pram. Don't know how far though. No one found a pram?"

  
"No, there was no pram."

  
"And we have a lead." Sherlock is bounding away now and Jo has no chance of catching up. She looks over at Lestrade, "No patience that one. Ta, see you around."

  
"Jo, was it?"

  
"Yes."

  
"Could you give me a way to contact Sherlock?"

  
"Of course, the address is 613 Montague St. And," she pauses but goes ahead, no one will find out, "She has a mobile, I'll try and get you the number. I'll email it."

  
"That would be great."

  
Jo nods and then turns and leaves the crime scene, attempting to look around for Sherlock. She couldn't have gone too far. After walking up the block only a little ways, she spies Sherlock in the great coat, atop one of the roofs, silhouetted by the moonlight, seeming to be looking for something. No use going after her, she'd have moved on by the time Jo caught up, so she goes to the main road and hails a cab. After a week, she was convinced, so she's ready to gather up the rest of what she had left. Giving the cabbie the address of her former flat, she sits back and tries not to snap at the cabbie for driving too slowly. _Sherlock Holmes may just be the best thing to happen to me in a very long time_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a long chapter this one. Started writing and I couldn't stop. This is going to be a slight twist on A Study in Pink apparently. Didn't plan that but it seems to be working out that way.


	4. Chapter 4

The old flat is terribly drab, thinks Jo upon opening the door. She goes over to the desk and pulls out her gun and the mobile phone, hiding both items on her person. They're all she needs, really. Everything else she'd taken over in a duffle bag the first night after seeing the flat. Not looking back, she leaves the flat's keys on the desk and closes the door.  
Outside, she hails another cab- she's going to rack up quite a fee she thinks- and head's back to Montague Street. She powers on the phone and checks for messages, predictably there are none, why would there be? _Nothing happens to me_. She powers the phone off again and puts it in her jacket. A while later she's climbing the stairs to the living room of the flat. Sherlock has already returned and is lying on the sofa with her feet propped up on the arm rest and her hands steepled under her chin.

  
"Convert to Christianity, then? Praying to Jesus now? Past so terrible you need to be saved for your sins?" joked Jo, shrugging off her jacket and putting it on the coat rack.

  
Sherlock looked up at her quizzically and then seeming to figure out the joke, and proceed to ignore it, replied "Send a text for me, will you?"

  
"Where's your-"

  
"Use yours."

  
Jo frowned at her, "How did you even-"

  
"Never mind how I knew, get it, the number is written down on my desk," Sherlock paused as Jo pulled her mobile out from the coat and got the number, "Write this exactly: What happened? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland St. Please come."

  
Jo began typing out the message and was interrupted by the now rather impatient girl reclining on the sofa, "Have you done it?"

  
"Yes, just.."

  
"Quickly."

  
"Alright, alright." Jo finished the message and sent it, "There, now how did you-"

  
Sherlock was off the sofa in a burst of energy and had gone over to Jo's coat, searching the pockets and-

  
"A gun? How did you get a gun?"

  
"You don't know everything about me Sherlock Holmes."

  
"Well at least I have protection now." She put the safety on and put it into the top desk drawer with the explanation, "Not strictly legal."

  
She was close to Jo now who notices something on her bared forearms.

  
"Are those nicotine patches? Three?" asked Jo pointing to the circular, skin colored patches.

  
"Impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London, made harder by the community."

  
"Now, hang on a tic, I've seen men smoking."

  
"Well yes, but that's... different somehow. Never mind, that's hardly important."

  
"Good for breathing, though."  
Sherlock exhaled and somehow was nearer to Jo now, seeming to be looking for something on the desk, "Breathing is boring."

  
_Okay_ , thought Jo, _her flat mate was mad. Officially mad_.  
But before she could think anymore Sherlock was bounding across the room to the hall and was back in a few seconds wheeling in what looked very much like a pram. She placed it in the middle of the room, between the two arm chairs they had somehow assigned to each other- Jo's was the red floral grandmother-esque one and Sherlock's was it's green counter part. However, Jo always thought the chair didn't suit her friend and perhaps that was the reason she so often was draped over the sofa instead. Now, however, Sherlock was indeed perched on the green armchair staring at the black pram.

  
"You mentioned a pram at the crime scene. Is that it? How did you find it? How does it-"

  
Sherlock looked up from the pram and fixed Jo with a stare, "I'm glad you're intrigued, but I think you should be wondering if I'm the murderer. I'm not, by the way."

  
"Right," Jo huffed a laugh, "Do people usually think you're the murderer?"

  
"From time to time. Now listen, I went around to the skips that the murderer could possibly have put the pram in and found it, took me less than the hour you were taking to get your phone and the gun."

  
Sherlock was up again, pacing, her hands tapping against her thigh with excess energy.

  
"I got the number from the purse that had likewise been discarded there." Sherlock reached into the pram and pulled out a small black purse. "There's always a slip up somewhere."

  
Jo's mobile rang then and Sherlock bounded over to look at the number.

  
"Is that- is that the murderer I just texted? Am I getting a call from a serial killer?"

  
"Yes. Someone innocent, someone who was going on with their day would ignore a message like that, but a murderer would panic."

Sherlock is tugging Jo by the sleeve then, letting go to put on her own coat, while Jo grabs the gun and puts it into the pocket of her own jacket along with the phone. Once again, they are bounding off to the chase.  
Jo is besides Sherlock as they stroll to another restaurant near the address Sherlock or rather Jo herself, gave the murderer. Sherlock is going on about _Could have just gone back to Angelo's but you made quite a scene_ and _Not entirely sure who this_ _serial killer is, nor his motives_ and _That's the frailty of genius_ , _it needs an audience_ but Jo isn't really listening. Rather, she's marvelling at the fact that one week ago her Shabboses were silent and lonely, that she had no one of any familiarity, that nothing was happening to her and that now she's chasing after a serial killer with a Charedi girl who is simultaneously the most knowledgeable person she knows in the realms of Judaism and science and psychology and all the other seemingly random amounts of factual details the girl has in her head while also being spectacularly ignorant about common knowledge and sociality and general normality. The girl was a complete paradox. And Jo had the feeling that she hardly knew anything about the girl now talking in great detail about how she had found the pram.

  
They've walked out of the community now, leaving behind the kosher restaurants and yeshivas and the men walking by with hurried steps dressed in black hats and long black coats, and surfacing into the world of adverts for cheeseburgers and movies and people chatting on phones dressed appropriately for the rather warm weather.

  
"Almost there." Sherlock says, apparently picking up that Jo was becoming rather tired from the long walk.

  
"Why didn't get just get a cab?"

  
"Do you think I have enough money for that many cabs?"

  
Jo laughs, "I suppose the price does add up rather quickly."

  
Then they are quiet again until they arrive at another Italian restaurant, where Sherlock leads them to the foremost window. Predictably the waitress comes over and Jo has no idea what to do.

  
"Two salads, please and two waters." Sherlock says before turning back to the window.

  
"Sherlock, what are you thinking? They're not checked- there could be bugs and who knows about the plates-"

  
"I didn't say anything about _eating_ here. The cabbie is supposed to come to that address across the street. We're just waiting." Something catches Sherlock's attention and she's drawling, "Not for long though."

  
Jo looks out the window and there is a cab parked across the way with a passenger inside.

  
"Don't stare."

  
"You're staring."

  
"We can't both stare. Stay here."

  
And then Sherlock is up, grabbing a wine glass left on a nearby table and throwing it on her face before running out to the cab. Jo watches as Sherlock speaks with the cabbie, apparently shamming drunk, before getting in.

 _Something's wrong_ , Jo thinks, though she can't possibly figure out what's tipped her off. She's about to throw down a few bills for the salads when she notices fifteen dollars already on the table. So she races out of the restaurant and tries to think where Sherlock would possibly take a cab to. The most likely possibility is home, and Jo hopes desperately that she's correct and she hails a cab and gives the cabbie the address.

* * *

  
Sherlock stumbles out into the street and ambles over to the cab, knocking playfully on the window opposite the cabbie. He rolls down the window.

  
"613 Montague St."

  
"After hours."

  
"It's not far." she says slurring.

  
"Plenty of cabs round here, get another one."

  
"613 Montague St."

  
"I'm not on duty and I don't take drunks."

  
Sherlock ambles away, towards the back of the cab and pulls out her phone. Dialling the number of the dead woman's phone, she puts it to her ear. The phone, predictably, rings from inside the cab. Then the cabbie is putting it to his ear.

  
"'Ello?"

"How did you make them take the poison?"

  
"Sorry, who is this?"

  
"Sherlock Holmes."

  
And then Sherlock walks back to the window, phone to her ear, staring directly at the cabbie.

  
"How did you make them take the poison?"

  
The line goes dead and the cabbie is getting out and walking towards her.

  
"Who are you?" he asks, coming closer, too close.

  
"Sherlock Holmes."

  
"Do a lot of drugs Ms. Holmes? Most people would be out cold by now."

  
Sherlock glances down and sees a needle stuck in her arm, _how had he... did he touch her... shema._...

"Don't worry I didn't touch you. Perfectly kosher. And you're not about to die. You will though, in a bit, after I talk to you."

  
"That's how you-" but Sherlock can't finish the sentence. Her legs are giving out and her vision is blurring and _Jo_. The cabbie is opening the door she's slumped against and she manages to fall in in a tumble of arms and legs, uncoordinated from the sedative. The door is being shut and _Jo_ , and then the cab rolls into motion.

* * *

  
Sherlock is still in the cab when she comes around. Terribly sluggish and, upon trying to lift an arm discovers she's weak, unable to defend herself.

  
"You've only been out ten minutes. Strong, you are. Well, come on. We're home, gave me your address after all. Figured you wouldn't like anyone to see me dragging you in so I've just been waiting. Best be getting in now though, unless you want questions. I'm rather impatient to start the game too."

  
And then the car door is being opened and Sherlock is struggling towards the flat, key in hand. Inside, she stumbles up the stairs dragging herself along by the stairwell, the cabbie is laughing ahead of her. Too long after, Sherlock finds herself sitting in a chair at the desk in the living room facing the cabbie.

  
"So you wanted to know 'ow I made them take the poison? Well, it's simple. I just talked to them. And I'm gonna talk to you." He pauses looking around the room and then back to Sherlock, "Take a moment. I want your best game."

  
Sherlock tries to unravel that statement, because _how is this a game_? It's difficult concentrating at the moment and her mind is blurred at the edges.

  
"I know who you are Ms. Holmes. Been on the website. Great stuff. You're a proper genius, really are." He leers and Sherlock glances at the door- opened if only a crack. _How does he know_? And that question is quite all encompassing, alarming because Sherlock needs details, and there are none. The cabbie is still prattling on _, long dramatic speech cliche anyone_?

  
"The Science of Deduction. Now that is proper thinking. Just between you and me, why can't people just think? That's what bothers you most, innit? All this, this life. No one thinks."

  
"That's not-" but Sherlock knows the retort isn't going to move this along any, "So you're a proper genius too."

  
The cabbie is pulling something from his pocket- two bottles containing two pills. "Wouldn't think it, would you? Funny little man driving a cab."

  
"Two pills, explain."

  
"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You choose and you take a pill and I take the other one. A completely fair game."

  
Sherlock scoffs, "It's not a game, it's _chance_."

  
"You're not playing numbers, you're playing me. It's chess. I know how people think." The cabbie leans back, "So, is it a bluff, a double bluff, a triple bluff?"

  
"It's still _chance_."

  
"I've outlived four people, it's not chance. Or perhaps, Gd just loves me."

  
"You've risked you life four times, why? Are you dying?"

  
"Got it in one. Aneurysm, right here." The cabbie taps his head, "Any day could be my last."

  
"What if I don't take either, I could just walk out the door."

  
"Think you could walk out the door. Besides, you won't." The cabbie pulls a gun from his jacket, "I could shoot you and you'd never know how I did it." He pushes a bottle towards Sherlock. "Go on, play the game."

  
_What have I got to lose_? And she reaches out and takes the bottle in front of the cabbie, opens it, empties it. He's doing the same.

  
"Still the addict."

  
It pierces into her skull.

  
"You do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored."

  
The pill is closer and her hand is trembling.

  
"You're not bored now, are you?"

  
Closer.

  
And then the cabbie is falling onto the floor and a crack that sounded very much like a gun has come from across the street and is presumably why the cabbie is bleeding to death on the living room carpet. Terrible stain that'll leave and who did... _Jo_.

  
And Sherlock smiles, just a small smile, only the corner of her mouth. She goes over to look out the window, but sees only a cab driving off.

  
"Did I get it right?"

  
"Did I choose the right pill?"

  
The cabbie is silent.

  
"Alright then, who put you up to this? A cabbie doesn't just become a serial killer for nothing. Who is it?"

  
He is still silent and the carpet stain is growing.

  
"You're dying but I can still hurt you. Give me a name."

  
Sherlock presses her foot into the wound, "A name."

  
"Moriarty!"

And the flat is silent, filled only by slowing ragged breaths below her.

_Moriarty._

* * *

  
The police arrive somehow and come up to the flat. They interrogate Sherlock and there's Lestrade and someone has put a horrid orange blanket around her shoulders. Jo is approaching her now, sauntering so casually no one would suspect she could have possibly just killed a man.

  
"What did you do with it?"

  
"With what, sorry?" replied Jo, confused. "I don't, uh-"

  
"The gun, Jo."

  
Jo smirks, "Doesn't really matter."

"Have to get the powder burns off your hands anyway. Are you alright?"

  
"Yeah fine, why?"

  
"Well you have just killed a man."

  
"I-"

  
Their conversation is interrupted by Lestrade coming over to ask Sherlock even more tedious questions.

  
"I still need-"

  
"You've asked me what happened for half an hour already. And look, I'm in shock, I've got a blanket."

  
"She'll come in tomorrow, give you everything you need." says Jo coming to her rescue again. Lestrade deliberates this, but eventually gives in.

  
"First thing tomorrow."

  
"Of course." replies Sherlock, in a tone that ends the conversation.

"Come on Jo." And then, they're walking again. Away from Montague St. and away from the dead serial killer in their living room.

  
"Did I say nice shot? It was."

  
"Thank you."

  
"You're sure you're alright?"

  
"Sherlock, he wasn't a good man. I'm fine."

  
"He was a bloody awful cabbie too." Sherlock says quietly. "The time he took getting here." And then Jo is giggling and then Sherlock is giggling. And then, "Stop, we can't giggle it's a crime scene." As they walk further away, it subsides and Sherlock is left smiling.

  
"So," Jo breaks the pleasant silence, "This is how you get your kicks, risking your life to prove you're clever?"

  
"Not exactly."

  
"Near enough though?"

  
Sherlock only hums in response, because this is not a conversation she wants to have right now.

"Whatever the reason, you're an idiot." Jo jokes.

  
"Dinner?"

  
"Starving."

  
"How about Chinese? You can tell the best restaurants by the bottom third of their door handle."

  
"Lead the way."

  
"I can always predict the fortune cookies too."

  
"Cannot." Sherlock only smiles in response, as they continue down the street Sherlock recounts to Jo the last of the case. Who the woman was and all the details of her childless marriage and recent miscarriage. What the cabbie said or near enough. When she finishes and they near the restaurant with men and women going in after shul, a few children about, Sherlock finds herself at ease for the first time in a very long time indeed. She could stay here, just might, if she has Jo by her side. Or rather, having Jo by her side anywhere would be far greater than anything she had previously imagined. At some point Jo had grabbed her hand without her noticing and has now dropped it to open the door.

  
"Want to check the handle, make sure we've got the right place?"

  
"Oh it's most definitely the right place." And Sherlock smiles at Jo again, before going inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, no harm meant by the Christianity jokes at the beginning, please don't take it that way.  
> Second, yes they're at Montague St. now not Baker St. Changed for plot reasons and Mrs. Hudson magically now has two properties in London.  
> Third, thanks to Ariane Devere for transcripts that I used for this chapter.  
> Fourth, my gd I hadn't watched the pilot of Sherlock but just reading through the script for this chapter and boy is it just.... not even Subtext. It's just blatant. John even asks at Baker St "So can I ask just what /is/ your street?" Like, calm down a bit John, just a tad.  
> Fifth, sorry for drawing so heavily on the episodes for this chapter, hopefully it won't happen again but alas this time it did.  
> Sixth, this is getting rather long. So I'll stop.  
> Seventh, I'm liar. Just wanted to say thanks for reading! I'm having a great time writing this!


	5. Chapter 5

Jo is out, _Baruch HaShem_ , when the inevitable happens. Sherlock is having a rather dull, yet productive day of analysing tobacco ash, when the flat door is unexpectedly opened. The footfalls where not those of Jo's, who was walking to her next class at the moment, nor Mrs. Hudson, who was hoovering her carpet across town at Baker St. Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope as the footfalls continue through the living room and into the kitchen.

  
A disapproving sniff and then, "You'll have to learn housekeeping if I will ever get you married off. Doesn't seem very likely considering your preoccupation with _experiments_ as you term them."

  
Sherlock forces herself to look up, almost an impossibility but she manages, at the short brown wigged, black suited figure in front of her. "We did have an agreement."

  
"And you are not meeting your end of it. I am in contact with the Shadchan after all."

  
"I was getting around to it. Just been a bit tied up."

  
"Whatever the trivial pursuit may be, it's certainly cannot overshadow a match. I've taken matters into my own hands, as you will not. You've a date on Sunday."

  
"Couldn't I review-"

  
"You'll take one of the next three. That's final."

  
"What time?"

  
"5:00."

  
"I'll be there."

  
Her mother doesn't respond. She just nods and sharply eyes her- _don't you dare not go_ \- before looking around disapprovingly and closing the living room door behind her. The ash is forgotten now, as Sherlock slides from the stool and gathers her violin and bow from the living room table. Calculations and molecules are over run with thoughts of wigs and headscarves, twin beds, and tiny children. Sherlock wants to drive them out of her head- the instrument isn't loud enough, the notes aren't right- but she can't. She plays, or perhaps she doesn't, until she feels a hand on her shoulder and realises the Jo is home and she's been standing with the violin and bow by her side rather than actually playing for the better part of three hours. The hand is warm and on the smaller side, gripping her shoulder reassuringly, and it grounds her. Her thoughts dissolve in a way the violin wouldn't make them and all she feels is the hand and warmth and knows that Jo is behind her still in her coat and having just set her bag on her chair before going to Sherlock.

  
"Hey," Jo's hand is gone but only because she is coming around in front of her, "You looked a bit lost. You okay?" Her face is the very picture of caring concern.

Sherlock can't respond, she can only look into the eyes in front of her and forget to breathe. Jo is smiling, just a bit in that way of hers that means something along the lines of _I'm here, talk if you want, I'll listen. I'll always listen_. Or perhaps that's just what Sherlock wishes.

  
"Fine. There's something else about that case. What we solved was only part of it. There's more going on."

  
Jo doesn't look like she believes any of that for about two seconds before resigning herself to incomprehension.

  
"Well, before you go on another case, how about some dinner? I know for certain that you haven't eaten today." Sherlock hums in response, unable to fully come back from her thoughts. Still lost in the _tangle muddle misunderstanding different wrong confused nervous scared abnormal_ -

  
"Curry alright?"

  
"I'll help." And then Sherlock is next to Jo in the small kitchen chopping vegetables and reading directions on a package of rice and telling Jo exactly how she should be sautéing the onions.

  
"Boring day today." says Jo amicably, "Bit of a let down after that case."

  
Sherlock smirks, "Never did tell me how you got a gun."

  
Jo stops stirring the onions for a moment, "Garlic and ginger."

Sherlock passes them over. "It was my dad's. Should be in the bottom of the Thames."

  
"Officially?"

  
"Shot in the head on a bridge. Gun in hand."

  
"Unofficially?"

  
"Gave me the gun and left. No idea where he is." Sherlock just nods and hands her the spices.

  
"That's when it started then?" Sherlock asks after a stretch of silence.

  
"Yup." Jo has not looked up from the pot for the entirety of the conversation and Sherlock notes that she's tense. Something else, there's something else in all of this. And Jo is not going to tell her.

  
"More milk." Sherlock hands it over and pretends that all of that was nothing more than casual conversation.

* * *

  
Jo is in the kitchen on Sunday night eating some takeout from a few nights ago and making quite a dent in the leftover challah, which she had emphatically informed Sherlock was the best she'd ever had, when Sherlock sweeps through.

  
"Going out."

  
Jo looks up, "Well, well, look at you!" She smiles and looks Sherlock over, "Where could you possibly be going?"

  
"Date."

  
"Really? I thought you didn't-"

  
That is a tiresome and useless conversation, so Sherlock cuts her off, "Mother's doing. I'll be back in a few hours." Then she's out the door before Jo has a chance to respond.

Unfortunately, the man is almost interesting. Sherlock is listening raptly as he delves into a conversation on the Kabbalah of Pesach, which is more thorough than anything she's heard previous. From the moment she sat down at the table, she had known he had been different. Perhaps it was the toes of the shoes that poked from beneath is slightly too-long trousers, or the sweater vest he was wearing atop the white collared shirt. Perhaps it was the tea he was sipping or how the first thing he'd asked was "Who's Kabbalah do you find most interesting?" This had caused her to laugh, ever so slightly, because this was his first evaluation. This was probably what he asked each of the girls he'd gone on a date with and judging by his expression, the answer before had predictably been 'That's not the sort of thing I've learned'.  
Of course, Sherlock was anything but predictable and had gone into a rather long explanation of her favourite revelations in the Bahir and Zohar. Her knowledge was relatively extensive, but this man had apparently devoted the time he should have been studying Talmud instead to the study of Kabbalah. It makes her smile ever so slightly as he continues to talk passionately about the various levels of soul and his own, rather basic in his words, interpretation of the application of the soul in various mitzvot. It doesn't seem long before the night is getting late and he's suggesting they go for a walk, so that they may continue to talk. Sherlock has no problem with this and apparently he doesn't either, so they walk down one of the side streets lined with small shops with window displays of hats and wigs and candle sticks. He keeps shooting little glances at her as they talk and Sherlock knows she has to stop this right now.

  
"I can't, I'm sorry." She's stopped walking and he turns back to face her. "My family wouldn't ever approve of you."

  
"I can make them-" He's stepped closer now and she really has to stop this.

  
"Here's my phone number," Sherlock hands him a napkin she'd scribbled her number on a few hours previous, "Keep in touch." She knows as she looks at his for seemingly endless seconds that if he could he would reach out and pull her towards him. It's _amazing_. It's tiny fireworks on the edges of the surrounding greyness. He's looking down at the number, a small smile as he reads what she wrote beneath it. 

_No one knows this but you, don't give me away._

  
"I won't." He says, softly.

Sherlock gives him another small smile- oh how she doesn't want to leave- and walks away.

* * *

  
"How'd it go?" Jo has obviously been waiting up, she has an early class tomorrow and it's after two in the morning.

  
"Well, Jo, very well." Is all she says because what more could she possibly say? "Goodnight Jo." And if she ignores the frown on the other girls face, well nothing could come of any of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, maybe I'll expand it during Pesach Chol Hamoed. Also if any of you reading this are Jewish/have an interest in Torah I highly recommend listening to Rabbi Yom Tov Glaser. I've been listening to a number of his shiurim over the last two weeks and they are AMAZING! I hope you have an inspiring Pesach- chag kasher v'sameach!


	6. Chapter 6

It's all become just a bit too _much_ , Jo thinks, as she sees Sherlock smirking, _again_ , at her phone. She'd asked of course, what exactly was so amusing, and was herself amused when Sherlock had said it was the man she'd gone on a date with. That had been yesterday, two days perhaps exactly to the minute after their date. And since then, Sherlock's phone had pinged forty nine times, and Sherlock had smiled, smirked, or actually laughed upon seeing every single one. And now, as Sherlock has been typing out what seems to be an essay in reply, Jo is no longer amused. Inexplicably, Jo has the urge to grab the phone and see what they've been writing. They must be flirting, that much was obvious. Flirting in the coy, modest, subtle, entirely _Orthodox_ way that Jo had observed in the last few years. Or perhaps not, she finds herself thinking. Seeing as Sherlock is anything but ordinary, they could be flirting in a far too obvious way, explicitly. That is the reason she wants to find this fellow and discover why Sherlock is so fascinated by him.  
Sherlock is actually _giggling_ now and that is really the final straw.

  
"I'm going out." Jo announces abruptly, getting up from her armchair. Sherlock only hums in reply, continuing to type out a text. What more did she expect?

  
A few hours and a number of cups of teas later, Jo has firmly decided that whatever had caused her to storm out of the flat was nonsense. She was just surprised that Sherlock was actually dating. Yes, simple as that. And given that Sherlock was Charedi, she should start preparing for the engagement party, seeing as she actually had an interest in this guy it wasn't far off. This thought sends her reeling again, but not before she passes a shop full of candelabras and she sees one perfect for Sherlock. Silver and engraved on the base is "A Woman of Valor". It's understated and yet dramatic. She buys it, the inevitable engagement calls for a present, and has it wrapped.

Settled as she is now, she returns to the flat, only to find it empty. Hiding the candelabra in her room, she turns to her studies.

* * *

  
It nears two in the morning and Sherlock has yet to return, perhaps she's met that boy again.

Closing the book she decides to try to get to sleep, early class in the morning after all. She leaves the light on anyway, for whenever Sherlock decides to return.

* * *

  
"-next Shabbos."

Jo is vaguely aware of someone speaking, pulling her from sleep.

  
"What?" Jo squints in the dark.

  
"Cannot believe it! Must they meddle. It's horrendous!"

Sherlock is pacing now and it's, Jo looks to the clock on her table, 4:46 in the morning.

  
"Didn't hear what you said seeing as I was _asleep_ Sherlock." grumbles Jo, sitting up.

  
"We're going to my parents next Shabbos."

"Alright, now why are you upset about that?"

  
"Must I repeat myself? I just said that they're meddlers and they completely disrespect-"

  
Sherlock is nearly tearing her hair out now in agitation as she continues to pace.

"Well, they'll love you no doubt. So don't worry," Sherlock sneers in her direction, "And you'll finally realise just how much-" Sherlock tugs her hair even harder and lets out a pained, broken, angry sound.

  
"Hold, woah, hold on Sherlock."

Jo gets up and captures the other girl by the shoulders, gently prying her fingers from her hair.

  
"You don't understand, Jo." The statement is so quiet that she barely hears it. Sherlock is no longer vibrating with anger. In fact now she's trembling and there are tears that seem to be quickly working into a some sort of hyperventilating fit.

  
"Breathe, Sherlock, you're going to-" But Sherlock looks at her with a horror before she turns and flees, slamming the door of Jo's room behind her. Jo stands in the too quiet, dark room affixed to the floor with the uncertainty of what she should do. Equal parts of her want to run after the girl and break through the stone walls around the girl's heart and find out why this has upset her and what has made her the way she is, and another part wanting to give her distance and is terribly, slightly afraid of this whirlwind she can't hope to ever predict.

* * *

  
The rest of the week, Jo sees no sign of Sherlock. It's too quiet and too ordinary over those days. Attending classes and doing assignments and making dinner hardly do anything to hold her interest. She wades from one chore to the next, very much like checking off a list. This was her life before Sherlock and she's reminded that her days are much more exciting when the strange girl is around. It's not surprising, it was obvious from the moment the girl has deduced her in the lab. Over the past month Jo had been ridden of self deprecating thoughts and her destructive tendencies that she wasn't entirely sure Sherlock hadn't deduced. This week though, depleted of Sherlock, has brought back the shadows to her conscious thoughts. Battling them is much more exhausting than the most trying days with Sherlock.  
When her flat mate hasn't appeared by the time she returns from classes on Friday, she's worried. There's a note on the kitchen table though with the address of her parents home and arrival time. The simplicity of it unsettles Jo as she dresses for what she expects to be a very tense evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you had a good Passover. I did! Now on to six week six of no music.... will I make it? Ahhh! Shorter chapter again, sorry, I really have trouble writing Jo, but one must practice to improve. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

It wasn't hard staying away from the flat that week. She had research to do and the case to look into. Wading through exhausted nights fuelled by caffeine and something stronger wasn't difficult- not in the least. It was simply as it had been for the previous four years. Graduating early from the Bais Yaakov school- two years early- and then getting bored and all but thrown out of the house. That last one was a bit her fault, coming home motzei Shabbos high probably wasn't the best idea. But it had set off a chain reaction for her relative freedom. She remained in the community, trying (not really) to get a husband, studying any number of things. Alone. Well, alone protected her. Until now, that is, when her new flat mate made her realise that all of this was not good, but actually terribly wrong. It wasn't that fact, however, that had made her stay far away. No, she had known this wasn't good and somewhere she'd have to muddle through and figure out why she davened three times a day, faster than any of the Rosh Yeshivos, but still wanted to go out for a smoke on Shabbos, and why, even now, when she had a perfectly good prospect for marriage, she was terribly appalled with the whole idea. Going back to her old ways the past few days because of this daunting question was the best solution, really. No one else understood that, but this was the only was she could really think. It was all too much otherwise. Too much information and too many facts and honestly, why would that woman by the deli with the two double strollers be painting her toenails only to hide them under thick stockings?

  
Walking down the sidewalk wrapped in her black coat she tried to put all of this out of her mind. Get through Shabbos. That was all she had to do. Jo would be there and that would be better. Jo was not very observant, she'd never know, not unless father said something. He wouldn't, he always abided by 'no fights on Shabbos'. He wasn't really there anyway, always out at shul listening to the Rebbe. Mother would stare at her, easily ignored. Siblings? Depended upon who was there. Not thinking about that.

  
One block to go.

  
A few people on the block wished her Gut Shabbos with a smile, she replied in kind. Her neighbors like her, always had, perhaps because she would come over on Sunday afternoons laden with cookies for their children and her violin for their entertainment. Tzadaka of sorts.

  
The flat was on the third floor, reached by a flight of stairs. The building was quiet. Everyone putting the last touches to the tables and making sure all was in order. For all that she might have resisted, the peace of Shabbos was the only thing that had kept her alive these past years. She could feel it now and suddenly everything was fine.

  
She opened the door, kissed the mezuzah, and was instantly bombarded by her little sister and enveloped in a rather tight hug.

  
"Sis! Sis!" squealed Rivki into her ear.

  
"Hello!" The girl was rather excitable, though it could be forgiven at her six years of age. "You've grown!"

  
"Come on, I have a present for you!" And then Sherlock was being dragged by the hand to her old room, which now roomed her two youngest siblings. "I know it's late. That's hardly my fault though. You never come around." Rivki pulled something out of her closet, "For Shavuot." Rivki thrust it into her hands and stood, staring up at her.

  
It was a clay Torah scroll, perfectly painted and opened just a sliver to reveal a few words, all perfectly written.

  
"You did this?"

  
"Copied it right from the school scroll. That's Parshas Balak. My favourite." She sifts her weight from one foot to the other nervously, "I didn't know what your favourite Parasha was."

  
Sherlock looked down at her sister. She wasn't the baby and toddler she once had been. Where had she been the past years away from this family? What would her sister do without her knowledge about the world? "For the record, my favourite is Parshas Haazinu. And this, dear sister, is a lovely present." Sherlock gave her a kiss on the cheek. "How about I leave this here for safe keeping over Shabbos and I'll take it home on Sunday?"

  
"Don't forget."

  
"I'm sure you won't let me. Is My coming?"

  
"Don't know. Hardly see him. Well, more than you, but..."

  
"He's busy, you know. In Yeshivah."

  
"Father is saying he'll be the next Feinstein. Studying all the Talmud so intensely."

  
Sherlock hums, her brother always had a mind for law. He'd end up a successful scholar or Rosh Yeshivah, something better than her.

  
"Sis, I've missed you."

  
"Me too." She smiled a bit, "Why don't you come over sometime? Sleepover party with your sis?"

  
"I don't think mother would allow me."

  
Sherlock blinked, swallowed the lump in her throat.

  
"Well, we'll see if we can change her mind. What about that?" Her sister only nodded before enveloping her in another hug. She hugged her back, just as tightly, and kissed the top of her head.

  
"Come on, candle lighting's soon. You're all ready?"

  
"Yup!" Rivki let go and spun in a circle.

  
"Gorgeous!" And then, hand in hand, they went to find out what last minute preparations they could do.

* * *

  
Jo pulls out the nicest dress from her closet, pulls it on, fixes her hair, pulls on her coat, grabs the paper from the kitchen table, and resolutely leaves the flat. The address isn't far away and yet it seems to take far longer than expected to arrive. She wonders what Sherlock will say. Will they act as if they haven't just been apart this whole week? Knowing Sherlock she won't even acknowledge it- the self absorbed git. No, she'll greet her and then will speak only in niceties the rest of Shabbos. All an act for her parents probably. Jo realizes she might be the slightest bit angry, but why? So Sherlock had gone to do who knows what for a few days? She was entitled to her own life. Sherlock didn't want Jo insinuating herself into her life, they shared a flat. End of story.

  
She'd arrived at the right street, now which building was it? Jo found it and walked up the stairs to the right flat. Steeling herself with a deep breath and a roll of the shoulders, she knocked on the door.

  
A few seconds later and hearing some one enthusiastically saying "She's here, she's here!", the door was opened by a short women.

  
"Ah, you must be Jo. I'm Mrs. Holmes. Come in. It's almost candle lighting."

  
"Thank you for having me." Jo kissed the mezuzah as she came in. "Is there anything I can help with?"

  
Mrs. Holmes had turned and was walking away into the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, "No, find Sherlock. Maybe she'll introduce you to her siblings." Her tone was mocking and it made Jo bite her tongue, lest she already upset her host. Instead of formulating a reply, she walked back into the living room and took off her coat. Sherlock was just coming in as she hung it in the coat closet and their eyes met before any greeting was said. There was a young girl holding onto Sherlock's hand, this was most likely who had announced her arrival so excitedly Jo realized. Sherlock was wearing a purple velvet dress, her hair sensibly half swept back. Underneath the light makeup, Sherlock had dark circles under her eyes and Jo wouldn't be surprised if the girl hadn't eaten the whole week. There was something slightly off about her, Jo sensed. But before she was able to think of why, Sherlock broke their gaze and crouched down to the other girl's level.

  
"Rivki, this is Jo. Jo, my youngest sister Rivki." The girl let go of Sherlock's hand and ran over, surprising Jo with a bear hug.

  
"Well, hello! Didn't know Sherlock had a sister." Jo glanced up at Sherlock, "How old are you?"

  
"I'm six!" The girl let her go and joined her hands behind her back, seeming to come back to a sense of formality. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  
"You too." Jo smiled and then the girl scampered off the way Sherlock had come saying, "Have to go get Yaakov."

  
"My younger brother." Jo only stared back, _so ignorance it was_ , "We should probably go into the dining room."

  
"Right." Jo followed Sherlock as she swept into the dining room. It imposing and quite opulent. The dark wood dining table, a chandelier, and white silk drapes over the windows made Jo feel out of place. "How wealthy are you?"

  
" _I'm_ not. My parents _are_." Jo scoffed.

  
"Disinherited then?" She said as a joke.

  
"Yes." Short, clipped. _Conversation over then_ , thought Jo. There was a few moments silence as Jo glanced around, surveying the perfectly laid table, the gleaming silver demanding her attention. The kiddish cup must have cost over three hundred pounds alone.

  
Sherlock's mother was calling, "Candle lighting! Come along Rivki!"

Mrs. Holmes came into the dining room, Rivki trailing behind her. The candles, seven in total- five children then, Jo noted- were set on a side table. As Mrs. Holmes struck the match and began to light the candles, all four women gathered around the table, the undeniable feeling of Shabbos came over the room. They drew in the light of the candles, circling the hands around the candles and covered their eyes with their hands. Mrs. Holmes began to slowly sing the blessing that officially began Shabbos. As Jo uncovered her eyes, she was struck not only by the beauty of the silver reflecting the candle light, but of Sherlock's face across from her. The other girl was staring into the candles, peace settled over her features, softly lit by the candlelight. Sherlock looked up then, her eyes meeting Jo's, something inscrutable in her eyes. Jo only hoped the look in her eyes was just as inscrutable, because if anyone would be able to understand what Jo herself could not, it would be Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

It seems to be going well so far, Jo supposes as she takes another piece of challah and declines another glass of wine. The men had arrived from shul half an hour after candle lighting and Jo had been speedily introduced to Sherlock's father and the brother Rivki had mentioned earlier. Sherlock's other brothers, Sherlock informed her, were at Yeshivah. She'd drawn out the word as if she considered it ludicrous. Jo wasn't sure whether she didn't sound relieved as well. Since then, Sherlock had barely said a word the entire meal. Her father and brother sang a few songs after Mrs. Holmes brought out the food and then everyone began eating. Sherlock, of course, picked at her food with complete disinterest. Jo glanced at her and every time noticed she looked distracted, as if she wanted to do nothing more than bolt, which is exactly what she did.

  
"Excuse me, will you? I'm exhausted." Sherlock said without preamble.

  
"We've hardly seen anything of you in months and we finally do and you don't say a word to us?" asked her father lightly with a glare in his eye.

  
"All day tomorrow, father." responded Sherlock, getting up from the table, "Good night."

  
Jo watched her leave, noticing the anxious fluttering of her fingers by her side as the door closed.

  
"That girl." sighed Mrs. Holmes.

  
"Now dear, we'll have her all day tomorrow."

  
"That's not what I was referring to."

  
"Yes, I know."

  
Jo puzzled what exactly they were talking about and why the room had suddenly become silent.

  
"What Mommy?" piped up Rivki suddenly.

  
"You wouldn't understand Rivki."

  
"Sherlock was saying I could come over on Sunday, a sleep over she said!"

  
"Absolutely not!"

  
"Why not Mommy? She was so excited and I've hardly-"

  
"I said no Rivki, not another word. It's high time you were asleep." Her mother looked pointedly at Rivki and the girl settled and slipped from her chair.

  
"You know her, can't you convince them?" The girl was by Jo's chair, looking up with teary eyes. "Please."

  
"I'm sure your parents have their reasons, Rivki. Better go to sleep." Jo tried a disappointed smile, but the girl just turned away and left the room.

  
"I do apologize-" began Mrs. Holmes, but Jo was done with any formalities. She wanted a reason why Sherlock's parents didn't trust their own daughter.

  
"I think you'd better explain." said Jo sharply, suddenly not caring about what impression she was making.

  
"Well you live with her, you know how she is."

  
"Violet, not on Shabbos."

  
"We'll end this conversation right now, Mr. Holmes. I just want to say that Sherlock has been kinder than anyone to me. I realize I might not know your side of things, but she still deserves some credit for taking me in. She's my friend, if there's something here I need to know, she'll tell me." Then Jo herself left with a curt nod, and found where Sherlock had gone. She found Rivki first, who silently pointed to a room at the end of the hall and then supplied, "Guest room for you both," before turning away to her own room.

  
The room was dark and indeed, there were two beds in the room. And Sherlock was curled up on the right one.

  
"Sherlock?" asked Jo lightly, stepping into the room and shutting the door. The window had been opened and there was a sliver of streetlight cutting across the floor. "Sherlock, you okay?" Jo made her way over and crouched down beside the bed. She could she that Sherlock was awake, her eyes studying the floor. There might have been tears on her cheeks, but Jo couldn't be sure in the half light. Jo reached up and brushed a piece of hair from her face, grazing her cheek on the way. She had been crying. Jo's knees began to hurt, so she lowered herself to the floor from her crouch and settled on the wooden floor and leaned a shoulder against the bed to face Sherlock. The other girl had refocused and was looking in Jo's vicinity, not directly, as if she couldn't face her, but near. Jo noticed her fingers were fidgeting slightly, nail scraping against her thumb in the nervous gesture Jo had recently come to recognize.

  
"Jo I said I was tired, just let me be."

  
But no, Jo had just been left alone for a week and Sherlock had hardly spoken anything but niceties to her this evening. Jo was most definitely not going to just let her be. "No, Sherlock," said Jo lowly, "No I will not. Now I deserve some explanation here, because there's obviously something you're keeping from me."

  
"Did you think giving Lestrade my number was a good idea? Because it wasn't."

  
"So sorry, I thought I was helping. Starting a career with Scotland Yard might require that they have some way of contacting you other than ink and quill!" Sherlock tried to turn away at Jo's out burst, but Jo caught her shoulder. "I just told off your parents, because you're my friend and I care about you, so I think the least I deserve is some kind of picture about what the hell is going on."

  
"I don't have friends." Sherlock turned away again.

  
"I wonder why." And Jo let her.

* * *

 

When Jo woke, the room was empty and after a moment of listening, the rest of the flat seemed to be deserted leaving her in silence. She hadn't changed last night, and her dress was horribly wrinkled. Hardly how she should look on Shabbos, so she decided to find something of Sherlock's to wear. Opening the closet in the room, she found a case that had to be Sherlock's. She pulled it out and opened it, pulling out the dress on top. It was a dark blue one she'd seen Sherlock wear on Shabbos a few times. It might be a bit long, but it was better than nothing. Jo found a black shell to put under it and quickly changed, putting her own dress in the case. Going into the kitchen she smelled cholent cooking on the hob and a covered plate next to it. Jo uncovered it and discovered challah and some kugel, presumably breakfast left over for her. She found a fork and scarfed it down in minutes. Only as she was taking the last bite did she remember what had happened the previous night and she found herself growing angry. Sherlock didn't consider her a friend? After everything she'd said, after everything Jo herself had done? Was it just a facade, was any friendliness Sherlock had shown just a rouse? For what? For someone to split the rent? Was that all she was, half the rent? Just someone else Sherlock had to put up with? She cared for Sherlock and this was what she got. Didn't she learn anything last time? She cared and all she got was a knife in the back.

  
Jo couldn't stay here another minute. At least if she went back to the flat Sherlock wouldn't be there until Sunday most likely, if the girl even deigned to come home. And then Jo could just stay in her room, avoid the girl, stay out of her way. Just pay half the rent and nothing more. Jo gathered her coat and left the flat, making her way to Montague Street by back streets to be absolutely sure she wouldn't run into Sherlock or any of her family.

  
Mrs. Hudson happened to be at Montague Street when she arrived and of course, the sweet woman invited her in for tea.  
"Now I know you don't make any, just sit there and let me. Goodness knows Sherlock made that perfectly clear." Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. "You've done her good, you know. Much less racket up there since you came along. Oh, I used to have complaints from the neighbors ever week. Gun shots, fires. Oh, dear." Mrs. Hudson placed a tea cup in front of Jo along with a plate of biscuits.

  
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

  
"Don't mention it dear." Mrs. Hudson sat across from her, "Well, how is uni going? You're studying..."

  
"Medicine."

  
"That's right. That must be difficult, Jo."

  
Jo only hummed, hardly interested in chatting.

  
"Why dear, whatever is the matter?"

  
"Nothing Mrs. H, I'm just a bit tired."

  
Mrs. Hudson gave her a long look, as if to say I don't believe any such thing. "Has something happened between you and Sherlock? That girl, you know, she means well, but sometimes, well-" Jo huffed a harsh laugh. "Now, Jo, you really just have to give her a bit of time. She'll come around." Mrs. Hudson patted her hand consolingly.

  
"Right."

  
It was quiet for a while as Jo finished her tea and ate far too many biscuits at Mrs. Hudson's insistence.

  
"Well, dear, I do apologize but I have to be getting across town."

  
"Of course, Mrs. H. Thanks for the tea."

  
"My pleasure, dear. Just wait Sherlock out, she'll come around." Then with a final pat to Jo's hand Mrs. Hudson left.

  
She went to her room and mulled over what Mrs. Hudson had said, wishing that she'd asked the woman what she knew about Sherlock's past. If there was anything going on with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson most likely had a guess as to what it might be. Perhaps some other time she could ask her. Weariness was overcoming her, as it often did on slow Shabbos afternoons, and unwilling to fight it, Jo fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea how to end this scene, so Jo fell asleep. Easy cop out, but I couldn't stand to build the tension up anymore this chapter.


End file.
